warmth
by Bag Of Badgers
Summary: GerIta. Germany just thinking about Italy, but you know it's going to be sappy as fuck. T for sexual references.
1. Chapter 1

Feliciano is so warm.

His palms are warm and soft with small calluses from paintbrushes, and his voice is warm and round and full of laughter, and his eyes are warm and dark, and his skin is warm and a little rough in places.

Everything about him is warm (sometimes not, but rarely; sometimes Feliciano goes cold and angry and Ludwig will do anything to bring him back then) and Ludwig _knows_ this and it is that, more than anything, that astonishes him.

That he is close enough to Feliciano, that Feliciano lets him close enough—that is enough, sometimes, to make Ludwig wonder how, _how_. How has he ever been this lucky, how can something so simple (well. Not simple, not really) as falling asleep curled up with Feliciano, fingers laced together and warm breaths mixing, make the corners of his heart tug and ache, how can Feliciano trust him so, how how how.

(the first time they had made love, ludwig had said _i-i'm not hurting you, am i_ and feliciano had looked up at him and then pulled him down and close, closer until feliciano's face was pressed into ludwig's shoulder and murmured _no, no, you're amazing i love you keep going _and it had been so, so warm)

Feliciano trusts him more than he has ever been trusted in his life, trusts him with his body and his heart and Ludwig has promised himself time and time again that he shall never betray that, never once, and how Feliciano can trust him so easily is a mystery but Ludwig will guard that trust and keep it with him, warm in his chest, and never ever break it because how could six syllables mean so much unless they were _Feliciano's trust_?

(and afterwards he had curled up around feliciano and breathed the smell-not roses or sunlight or anything like that, instead sweat and a bit of cologne and bread and a tiny bit of fumes from glassblowing-of him and feliciano had nuzzled into his chest and sighed contentedly and ludwig had realized that he would do anything for this, anything at all, he would die for this and give anything for this, for feliciano warm and solid in his arms)

Ludwig knows, definitely, that he is being sentimental and silly and foolish, but that does not change the fact that Feliciano is beautiful, warm and trusting and Ludwig would trust him with his own government and his own people. It does not change the fact that sometimes just looking at Feliciano can make Ludwig's breath stutter. It does not change the fact that Feliciano has said the same of Ludwig, has said it out loud. It does not change the fact that Feliciano trusts Ludwig so warmly and fully that sometimes it pulls at him until he feels like his heart will crack and leak round the edges.

(it does not change that after the first time they kissed, feliciano had laughed loud and clear and warm and pulled ludwig close and kissed his cheeks and said not for the first time _love you!_ and ludwig had replied, carefully placing the words that felt so strange and new and fitting in his mouth, _i love you too._)


	2. obligation

It has reached almost a traditional status between the two. After a night like that comes a day like this. Not quite a _tradition_ so much as the twisting knot of intersection between obligation and love and duty and adoration and reciprocity, you-did-this-for-me-I-do-this-for-you.

After a night like that, a night that leaves aches and chafe marks and just sometimes bruises, comes a day like this.

A day where Germany does not shake Veneziano awake at the required hour, because there is no required hour save "past nine a.m.", but curls up around him and brushes his fingertips over warm skin and lies there the extra hours in the muted light that shines through the curtains. A day where, when Veneziano stirs, he snuggles closer and does not have to get up at all.

When it can be put off no longer, Germany detangles himself from the nest of warmth and tangled limbs and sheets and, kissing Veneziano's forehead, asks if he wouldn't like something to eat. Veneziano always does, and Germany returns with pancakes and lets Veneziano eat in bed. He hesitantly sits behind Veneziano again, close, wrapping his arms around Veneziano's midsection, mumbling _are you sore, do you need anything, do you feel all right_ and Veneziano reaches behind himself to pat Germany on the head and answers _I'm fine, _leaning back into him.

After a night like that, a day like this, where Veneziano does not have to put on clothes but shuffles around the house in curly bedhead and one of Germany's old button-downs, settling for curling up in a heap on the couch underneath more blankets until Germany sits next to him.

He owes Veneziano this. He owes it to Veneziano, after a night like that, to give him a day like this. To rub the cricks and aches out of his back and sit with him and accept his kisses, to watch the same movies they've seen a thousand times because they're Veneziano's favorites, and it is in no way a hardship to do so. There is no other way to thank Veneziano for the trust of nights like that, for how Veneziano gives himself over completely and goes under and trusts that Germany will take care of him and put him back together at the end of it all.

And it is a little embarrassing, in that way everything is with Veneziano, but it is no hardship to kiss the bruises in silent apology for raising them, to lie with Veneziano far past the point where any sensible person would have gotten off the couch except for the way his hair caught the noonday light (and the comb, but oh well) and the look of sleepy contentment on his face.

So they watch movies and lie together and don't even really have to talk, and Germany takes care of Veneziano as best he can, as he did last night and as he will today and as he will always do.


End file.
